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Billionaire man, however, seems to have different ideas. His balls are nowhere to be seen. When he said we should start with a bath, I figured he meant we’d bathe together. Instead, he leads me to the bathroom suite.
Holy!
It’s not like I was brought up in a shack—we had a modest but lovely and warm home growing up—and I’m not into luxury bathrooms, but this is truly incredible. It‘s a work of art. A different realm.
So much space. So much white. So much delicately patterned marble. A glass-enclosed rainfall shower so streamlined it’s practically invisible. Matte black metal taps with not one extraneous detail. Huge vintage mirrors hang on the wall like art pieces, displayed in ornate burnished bronze frames, the paisley feather-shaped curlicued details of which are echoed in other parts of the suite. A dozen candles flicker, painting the walls with their animated light.
An ivory-colored silk robe is waiting for me after my bath, the water of which is steaming and bubbling. Sleek and modern, the beautiful bathtub is the focal point of the room.
A silver wine cooler, full of ice, holds a bottle of sparkling mineral water and a bottle of Dom Perignon, which had already been opened and poured into a long, elegant flute. Billie Eilish drawls quietly over the well-hidden speakers.
“Now,” he says, “I know what you’re thinking.”
I just look at him. I wouldn’t say I was speechless, I just … couldn’t find any words at that exact moment. Even I didn’t know what I was thinking, apart from the obvious fact that I really didn’t belong here.
“You’re thinking,” he continues, “that you shouldn’t be drinking alcohol with a head injury.”
I can honestly say that was absolutely not what I had been thinking.
“Probably not,” I replied. Honestly, my personal health and safety was the last thing on my mind. I was ready to dive into that tub and drink that whole bottle of bubbles with his help or without it.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, “so I got you water, too. As a way to … mitigate risk.”
I love the way he says mitigate risk. “But you opened the champagne already,” I say. “It would be a shame to not have a glass.”
“Hmm,” he agrees. It comes out like a soft growl. “That’s true. We wouldn’t want to waste it.”
“I’m very much against wasting anything, in general,” I say.
“As you should be,” he agrees, passing me the glass of champagne. “Rampant consumerism is out of control.”
I know he’s mocking me, but it’s with affection, and I’m playing along. In fact, I may have started it. “Best we both have some, then.”
“If you insist,” he replies. He pours himself a glass and makes to leave.
Stay! I want to yell.
Say it, I tell myself. But I feel shy all of a sudden. Damn it.
Say it! Becks’s voice. Grab life by the balls, remember?
I choke on my first sip. In my defense, Dom Perignon is really bubbly. I’m not used to actual French champagne. When Becks and I celebrate something, it’s with an affordable prosecco from Tesco. Bonus points if it’s on special with the club card. I try to recover as quickly as possible.
Despite my discomfort—or because of my discomfort—billionaire man is amused. “On second thought, I’m not sure you should be left alone in here.”
“True,” I say, my voice still raspy with the bubbles that went down the wrong way.
“There’s a lot of water in that bath.” He motions to the tub. “I wouldn’t want to lose you.”
“Fair point,” I say. “You wouldn’t hear me drowning over the music.”
“It’s decided, then. I’ll stay to keep an eye on you. Just to be safe.”
“Excellent decision,” I say. “Best to be cautious in these uncertain times.”
He touches his chin and nods. “Risk management. It’s one of my talents.”
Chapter 7
